


Never Say Die

by humane



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Angst, M/M, Might be slightly dubcon depending on how you look at it, Porn Practice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 02:16:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6176335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/humane/pseuds/humane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do you find me abominable? Grantaire had said, instead of answering; yet an answer was in that question nonetheless. Enjolras had known then, what would kill Grantaire quicker than the heat of a midday sun: a nod was all it would take.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Say Die

**Author's Note:**

> Finished the first exam a few days ago! So this is what I do with my precious few hours of free time..

 

 

 "We can't kill him." Enjolras said tightly. "He participated in none of our agreements beforehand."

 Combeferre detached his mouth from where it had been uncharacteristically attached to the rim of a bottle for the past five hours. "Everyone that went willingly to fight with the blood-drinkers as good as agreed to be terminated should they be turned into one of them."

 "Not Grantaire." Enjolras argued. "He wouldn't- he doesn't share our cause. He never had our loathing."

 "Then why did he fight with us?" someone piped up from the small crowd gathered around Enjolras in the dingy bar of _Les Amis_. Someone new, if he felt the need to ask that question in the first place- out of genuine confusion and not to further torture Enjolras for the pit he had dug for Grantaire by the simple means of _existing._

 "His devotion isn't to a cause." Marius muttered, that incomprehensible understanding on his face. Enjolras was arguably the most brilliant tactician in the sizable resistance united against the underworld of France. It didn't stop him from feeling like an incurable fool wherever Grantaire was involved.

 "Shouldn't we ask him first? What he wants? The turning didn't diminish his mind." Courfeyrac suggested.

 "I already did." Enjolras said, and buried his face in his hands. Grantaire's expression when Enjolras had asked was clearer in his mind than the most vicious ghosts of battle that haunted him; he had never expected to see such vulnerability so willingly offered, in the blood-red eyes of a predator that could tear off a man's jugular with its teeth.

_Do you find me abominable?_ Grantaire had said instead of answering, yet an answer was in that question nonetheless. Enjolras had known there, what would kill Grantaire quicker than the heat of a midday sun: a nod was all it would take.

  _No,_ Enjolras had said vehemently, because he was not a liar; and also because he was afraid, terrified, of this power thrust suddenly into his hands. But perhaps not so suddenly. Grantaire had been nothing less than open devotion since the day he had first spoken up against Enjolras at _Les Amis_ , whether he was throwing out taunts, singing mockingly along to their songs, or simply looking at Enjolras, too drunk to produce any coherent argument and too sober to lose focus on the one man his eyes never left. Perhaps it was only circumstance that had made his attention so staggeringly real, where Enjolras, being a coward, had persuaded himself he would die before he'd have to face its implications.

 A coward. That was one name Enjolras hadn't thought would be applicable to himself.

 "He wants us to decide." Enjolras said, jarred back in to the present. _He wants me to decide,_ was what he meant, and knew his colleagues understood. They let him hide behind the collective, again.

 Feuilly snatched the bottle from Combeferre's grip and took a swig. "It will be mercy to put him to rest. In a couple days he'll start feeling uncontrollably thirsty, and from there it's either being chained to a wall until he starves to death or living as a monster that can't survive without coercing blood out of people while they're drugged off his scent." He took another swig. "A parasite slut."

 "Feuilly." Combeferre said sharply. Feuilly grimaced. "Not that he is one- yet."

 "It's just once every month or so." Marius said uncertainly.

 "It's once _every month._ " Feuilly said. "A dozen innocent people seduced against their will every year. Do you know how unpredictable a newly-made vampire's control is? More than half of them will be killed, whether Grantaire means to or not. There's a reason nobody with a sane mind wants to be fed from, even with the supposed euphoria and the stalling of your aging. None of it matters when you're dead."

 "It should have been me." Enjolras said, for maybe the hundredth time. They had both lost their rifles in the chaos of men and creatures clashing in the middle of the lamp-lit streets of Paris. the vampire before them had looked between them and lunged at Enjolras first. But it had been Grantaire's shoulder that it had bitten into when he bodily knocked Enjolras out of the way; someone had blown the brains off the creature's head in a dangerously accurate shot. Enjolras lifted the body off Grantiare where he was in a tangled heap with it on the ground, and Grantaire had looked up at him, wild-eyed, black blood splattered all over his cheeks, on his neck- in his mouth.

 Enjolras had shoved fingers in Grantaire's mouth and made him vomit. It had still been too late.

 Marius laid a gentle hand on Enjolras' shoulder, startling him. "Maybe we should come back to this in the evening. There's still some time. Let's rest first- none of us slept last night, we should clear out heads."

 A murmur of agreement rose around them. Enjolras nodded his approval, and Combeferre called out the end of the meeting the way Enjolras usually did. Feuilly staggered upstairs with Combeferre in tow, Musichetta followed them with fresh gauze for Feuilly's scratched side. Marius went out the door with a last squeeze on Enjolras' shoulder and Enjolras was alone, slumped miserably on the dusty stool with only his morbid thoughts for company.

 Or so he thought, until he heard a familiar voice.

 "Excellent way to repay him." said Eponine, walking out of a shadowed corner. "He ended, what, a hundred vampires so far just to see you smile at him, and now you're ready to make him the hundred-and-first."

 "I'd never kill him." Enjolras gritted out.

 "You won't." Eponine said crisply. "You'll just look at him and he'll throw himself off a cliff. Much easier on your conscience."

 Her lips twisted, less a smirk and more a grimace. She was thinking of Gavroche. She was always thinking of Gavroche. Her little brother, turned by an anonymous something in the more organized of blood trafficking rings. Returned by nightfall and dead by noon, while his sister was arguing for his life in this exact same place. A pile of ash and an opened back door was all they had found.

 "I won't let him hurt himself, either." Enjolras said.

 "I didn't take you for a liar."

 "I am not."

 Eponine frowned. "You'll let him starve, then? That hardly seems kinder."

 Enjolras rose abruptly from the stool. Enjolras could tell when it occurred to her; her mouth opened in a silent O, and she didn't stop him as he walked past her, toward the door that led to the basement where Grantaire was shielded from the sunlight.

 "Enjolras, you're our leader." Eponine called behind him, "If you-"

 "I'm his friend." Enjolras cut in, and faltered. remembering the way Grantaire's face fell every time he was addressed as such. Enjolras had switched to calling him by the name when he noticed. The word felt rusty in his mouth, now.

 He opened the door, and closed it behind him. Eponine did not stop him anymore.

 

 

 

 The basement was lit by a single lamp. Combeferre had dragged down a mattress for him from upstairs, and Grantaire sat on it in the otherwise bare room, staring at the flame. The air was cool, uncomfortably so for a human, maybe, but Grantaire found that his body liked it. He had liked to bask in sunlight until yesterday. Now it would mean the most painful death imaginable.

 The door creaked a little as it opened, letting in a sliver of light.

 "Grantaire." Enjolras said quietly, stepping into the room. The legends should have given Grantaire sharper hearing with the turning, made this beloved voice that much richer and sweeter; the reality gave him none of that, and Enjolras sounded as he always did. Only rich enough to make his mouth dry and only sweet enough to make his heart stutter.

 "Grantaire." Enjolras said again, when Grantaire didn't answer. He stepped toward Grantaire and knelt by him, tapped him lightly on the shoulder. Grantaire looked at him reluctantly, knowing his vivid eyes would not repulse Enjolras, yet fearing they would nevertheless.

 "You should drink from me." Enjolras said matter-of-factly, Grantaire stared at him.

 "What?" he managed.

 "I said you should drink from me." Enjolras lifted his chin, baring his throat. He was terrifyingly close; Grantaire could smell him, the gunpowder-scent from last night still thick on his clothes. But beneath it the sweat, and the throb of his steady pulse-

 Grantaire recoiled. " _No._ " he snarled, and winced as his canines scratched against his lower lip. Enjolras leaned back, face inscrutable. He began to unbutton his vest.

 "What-" Grantaire yelped, confused and a good deal alarmed, but by the time he had his wits together Enjolras had already discarded the vest and was in the process of shucking off his shirt. It struck Grantaire then, as his fangs lengthened further and saliva flooded his mouth. Enjolras met his disbelieving stare with his characteristic calm resolve, shirtless and hooking his fingers beneath the hem of Grantaire's shirt. There was a silent dare in his eyes, a dare to push him away, strike him, maybe. Fight him.

 Enjolras had always had a habit of asking Grantaire for the impossible.

 Grantaire closed his mouth, a wordless answer. Enjolras continued to divest them both of their clothing.

 Grantaire had admittedly fantasized about this. Not in this context, not out of nightmares, but Enjolras naked between his legs, lips on his neck and hands stroking down his sides? Definitely. Frequently. One would think all the mental simulations would have prepared him somewhat for the real thing. But the reality was that Grantaire's traitorous mouth fell open the moment Enjolras began nipping under his jaw as if he were the predator and Grantaire his eager prey. Grantaire's fangs embedded themselves in his lip when he fought to keep his mouth shut again. It hurt. Perhaps he made a sound. Enjolras licked at Grantaire's lips, tonguing around the punctures, making him shiver and then writhe when the movement sealed their hips together. Enjolras paused to let out a strangled moan. Grantaire could feel the jut of Enjolras' hipbone against his own pelvis pushing against his flesh as Enjolras rolled his hips, once, twice. It was maddening.

 Enjolras withdrew.

 Grantaire gritted his teeth so as not to cry out. Enjolras' curls were swept back from his forehead, already a little damp with sweat, and a flush ran all the way down to the center of his pale chest. His pupils ate up the color of his eyes as he stared down at Grantaire. He brought up a hand, a small container of salve clutched in it, and Grantaire couldn't believe this was happening now, here, like _this-_  at all. That it was happening, at all, was enough to eclipse any other thought he might have had about the situation.

 Enjolras, clearly not understanding this, hesitated.

 "Are you-" he began. The rest of the sentence died in his mouth when Grantaire reached out to push Enjolras' hand down, spreading his legs so it landed on the inside of his thigh. Enjolras' palm was a sweet solid burn against his lowered temperature.

 It was discomfort, at first, and Grantaire accepted it gladly as a distraction. They were both clearly out of practice. Enjolras was too quick and too cautious in turn, spurred forward by anticipation, reigned in by concern. His mouth pressed insistent kisses to Grantaire's forehead, and it was a surprise to Grantaire, that Enjolras would dip this far into intimacy for a friend. The swell of adam's apple on Enjolras' throat brushed over Grantaire's nose when he swallowed. It was torture, the kind they might offer in heaven before banishment. Enjolras twisted his fingers in Grantaire, three fingers in now, and Grantaire twitched, wanting to urge Enjolras on- it was there, accurately, but not hard enough, and he needed more than fingers. He didn't speak.

 They both groaned when Enjolras pushed in at last, Grantaire's a muffled cry through his teeth. Enjolras put his elbows beside Grantaire's head and moved tentatively, still keeping his neck pushed against Grantaire's face. He thrust again, more deeply, and the inches he had on Grantaire meant his throat hovered just so over Grantaire's mouth as he moved. Grantaire thrashed in a fight against his flickering control as the pace quickened. Enjolras was too close. He was too hot, he was too bright, and he was, miraculously, if temporarily, _Grantaire's_. The thought numbened his mind and brought his senses to a frenzy. With any other person his control would have slipped far sooner, but it was Enjolras, and the thought poured ice over his spine that his brilliant, noble Enjolras may be spending the last moments of his life fucking like an animal. More than once he almost begged Enjolras to stop- or was it to keep going, faster, more, again? He could not think. He should keep his mouth closed.

 In the end, it did not take so long. There was a particularly delicious shove against his prostate, Enjolras lowered his head to brush a kiss on his temple, and Grantaire's mind darkened and came back to himself burying his teeth in Enjolras' neck. Enjolras didn't so much as make a sound, though his hips jerked minutely. He continued to thrust as Grantaire fed helplessly after the initial irresistible taste, growing more frantic by the second, dragging Grantaire up with him to climax. He courteously flung Grantaire over the threshold first with a hand between their stomachs, sloppy and erratic and more than enough to make Grantaire shout, fangs sliding out of flesh and not even coherent enough to realize it. Enjolras kept on moving as Grantaire emptied and clenched, lost in his own pleasure. Grantaire shuddered and whimpered at the drag inside him, just this side of unbearable, eyes fixed on the exquisite shift of Enjolras' expression as he pulled Grantaire onto his cock and convulsed. Grantaire watched the haze ebb in his gaze, and they looked at each other, Grantaire at Enjolras' bloody neck, Enjolras probably at Grantaire's equally bloody mouth.

 Grantaire looked away first.

 "You didn't hurt me." Enjolras said, sounding- triumphant, of all things, and proud. Grantaire looked back at him sharply. He did indeed appear quite hale, if slightly pale. But it was sheer chance that had saved him. Grantaire could just as easily have drained him, sucked the life out of Enjolras' unresisting body and ended the cause of his own life by his hands. He opened his mouth, ready to shout, but Enjolras kissed him before he could make a sound- and who was Grantaire to resist? Anger was short-lived in him when faced with such genuine joy from Enjolras. Enjolras buried his face in Grantaire's shoulder and inhaled.

 "A month. We bought a month." he whispered fervently. It bewildered Grantaire. Resolve he was used to hearing in Enjolras' voice. Triumph, also, and good humor, and sorrow, and a million other things he had learned to parse by the slightest change of cadence. But desperation was new. It did not sound right. Desperation was what Grantaire saw in the mirror, what he found at the bottom of a bottle after yet another night of pointless longing. Desperation was Grantaire's to feel for Enjolras. It did not suit the leader of _Les Amis_ , always their unwavering light.

 "A month." Enjolras repeated, still that choking hope-despair in his voice. Grantaire wondered.

**Author's Note:**

> This was mostly practice. I feel slightly traumatized by myself, which is apparently how you feel when you write porn stuff for the first time? If anyone reads this please could you tell me if this has been a) bad porn, b) horrendous porn, or c) abominable porn and in what ways so I can fix my writing?
> 
> Also, next chapter will likely be posted after July 2016, if it comes to exist..


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